Dopamine
by schnitzel-schreibt
Summary: When Malcolm Graves is released from prison, all he can think of is getting back at the man who put him there. Yet before he can so much as formulate half a plan, he is prompted with custody over what appears to be their adopted daughter. Graves soon realizes the world has not waited for his return, and that his former partner in crime is on the run from more than just him...
1. The Fool

**The Fool**

Sometimes I walk mysterious places  
Hear voices that talk without a word to say  
Sometimes I hear the echoes of laughter  
In the twilight of affairs and other tragedies

Sometimes it's easy to forget only for a moment  
But there are nights you regret eternally

 **Graves**

There's something surreal about leaving prison after ten years.

It's a bit like travelling to a foreign country you've been to as a kid. Technically you know the place, but all your memories are blurred and stretched around the edges. You've tried to recall the weirder details so many times they've become infused with the madness that inevitably takes you after living in the same tiny fucking room for too long. When they drove me here, we came by this one building, a formless chunk of concrete that was repainted so many times everything just melted into some ugly olive. At least I think it's olive. Can't say I know much about colours. Anyways, I could have sworn it was east from the facility, at this T-crossing with the train tracks running by.

I specifically remember turning my head to notice it and thinking how it stared back at me, dark windows gaping up like eyes and mouths. I remember wondering how many morons must have tried digging a tunnel there or some other bullshit. It's the first thing out of the prison grounds in a couple of miles. Bet it's part of every second escape plan. Bet they've got cameras there.

So I've spent my share of sleepless nights thinking about that building. I guess it was an office of sorts at some point, judging from the parking lot in front and the way it's cut. There were some rough spots where I fantasized about waking there, between pigeon shit and rot, rather than on my bunk. Then there were not so rough spots where I imagined beating his ass from one end of the building to the other and throwing him out of a window facing the facility, facing ten fucking years of-

But it's not actually there. It's on the other side of the crossing, so you're driving between the office and the tracks. Could've sworn I saw a train go past it when I got here, but it's a deserted line, too. Turns out if I ever did go nuts enough to dig myself out with a spoon I wouldn't even have found the damn thing.

I got moments like that waiting for me everywhere. Stuff I was sure worked a certain way but then it doesn't, and nobody wonders about it, only me. Some you expect - like walking into a supermarket you could shop blind at once and not finding shit. That I get. Stuff changes. But some things you don't really think about and then it hits you smack in the face.

The weirdest are the people. I'm on the bus to the city with three other guys. None of them served as long as I did, and still we find it weird that nobody really tells us what to do. Where to sit, how to talk to each other. One calls me faggot, I punch him on the nose and the bus driver just sighs.

Guess he thinks we'll all wind up on the return trip soon enough, but there's no shouting, no guards to restrain us. It's strange how punching a guy feels more liberating than to see open terrain, or people that aren't in uniform. Kids. I forgot how noisy kids are. How a woman in a dress looks like when she's not on a television screen. We had an all male facility. Sure gets funny when your papers say you're married to a dude, but I never expected anyone to get it. Hell, even I don't get what my papers say.

It comes with being a conman I suppose. You collect so many forged IDs you forget what should be on the real one. I've got stories over stories to construct a scheme from. Play a role often enough and it becomes a little bit true. So I guess I'm a little bit married.

There's two parts about people that are different on the outside. One is crowds. Crowds are an organic thing here, they move and adapt and nobody really gives a damn. In prison, if a crowd is ever allowed to form, it's so strictly monitored that you feel like it's one single creature. You look to the guys surrounding you and although you don't want to, you feel connected to them. You're all in the same boat and the boat sucks. Outside, crowds are anonymous. All you share is being in the same place at the same time and there's no reason to pay attention. What's the worst that could happen?

Two is being alone. Because you actually are alone, and it's quiet. I had a solitary cell. My whole block was filled with violent offenders, so they wouldn't risk us sharing. But there's no such thing as quiet with all the guards and your involuntary flatmates. We were what, sixteen? Sixteen on a corridor and half snored. Plus there's always someone pissing. Heard in some prisons, they try 'n be polite about it. Well, we weren't one of those.

That's the moment where it really hits me, sitting in my flat, and it's quiet, and the clock ticks on but nobody comes to fetch me. I've got a small television in one corner of the flat. The sofa's sunken in, but it works. Never had a TV in prison. Guy across the hall had one. Had it running all day and night, too. Then there was the one in the common room, where we'd fight over what to watch with a couple dozen guys. Kinda calming to just flip through the channels now. For ten years, this is how I knew about the world. How phones grew flatter and the economy decided to go screw itself. Fun times. Could've made a fortune. Now it's all reality TV. Why these people even claim to be famous is beyond me. They piss and puke in alleys. Been there, done that, just never seen a camera around. I stumble over a sports channel, but it's running darts. Who the fuck takes darts seriously? Darts is for a shady bar that reeks of yesterday's deep-frying fat, for places where the ground is sticky with spilled beer and the air thick with smoke. It's for when you wait to be drunk enough for the real fun. I was always shit at darts, but I never cared. Darts ain't for TV. Darts, it's for my kind of people, and we ain't made for carin'.

It takes me hours to internalize that there's no cafeteria, no lunch bell. Starving, I head out again.

When I was younger, I was in jail a few times, but never for more than a couple of months. Never long enough to feel fucking queasy about cars. I walked here all the way from the city centre. Took me what, two, three hours? Had to do it. Had to proof to myself that I can just walk like that. It was strangely agitating to see them shoot past me. Nothing in prison moved that fast.

Now my legs are tired and lazy, so I slump down with the results of my shopping. I end up having to go three times. First I grab what I think I need for now: Frozen pizza, smokes, six pack of cheap beer - which brand was good, I forgot, what did I like? - toilet paper, some soda in case I change my mind about drinking myself into a stupor. Then I remember it's Saturday, and I go back to grab some canned beans and toast so I have something to eat tomorrow. I end up throwing other stuff that I vaguely remember should be in a kitchen into the basket as well, like a bag of rice and dish soap. Back in the flat I realize I don't actually own dishes.

So I'm there a third time, and I get those plastic plates and the red stupid cups college kids get wasted from, I get salt, I get pepper, I get a list of little things that took me an hour to compile.

Who forgets salt? It's the last item on there. I'm a mess and I know it.

I also get a bottle of whiskey. The kid at the counter looks at me with pity.

"Found everything?" he asks, and I can almost hear him adding "this time" in thoughts.

"Go fuck yerself," I snort. Won't go shopping here again. Might steal some stuff once I've scoped out the place though. The aisles are further apart than what I'm used to, but I'll manage. My trick's always been going in the odd hours, and grabbing two or three things that are clearly inconvenient errands. Diapers or tampons always work. Diapers and booze together gets you a weird look, tampons and condoms makes 'em blush. Then you stuff that in your pocket or under your arm like the good daddy you are and no one's got a clue about all the crap in your backpack. Bought a lot of tampons for a guy who hasn't had a girlfriend in two decades.

Not today though. I'm too shaky to not play it proper. Perhaps that's strategy. Keep 'em locked up long enough they forget how to steal. Not that stealing's the only thing they got me for.

And guess what I still don't have after three fucking runs to the supermarket? A lighter. Good thing the trailer's got a gas stove and there's a lonely pack of matches in a cupboard. Getting a cigarette going with a match looks stupid as fuck but ain't nobody watching. Ain't nobody watching anything.

Can't describe that.

How good it feels.

Just me, and the only sound I'm not making is the oven. It's exciting and captivating. Never been a quiet man, won't get used to it. I've got the house for three months, but if it goes my way, I won't need it that long. Not much of a settler, me.

Might also be that I spent ten godforfuckingsaken years in the same place, so I'm anxious to move. I'll have to get some things in order. A few of my old contacts are here in town. If I can get my hands on an ID and a car, I'll be back in full swing soon enough. Then a gun. Needs a gun, what I'm doing.

The flat's even smaller than I thought. It'll do. I lived half my life in cheap motels and on car seats. Kinda nice to have my own bathroom for once. TV and phone's connected, too. They rent this out to scum like me all the time. Like a transitional period for us to find our own place in society again. I know where mine is. Always been the same. Ain't gonna change.

It's an easy life, and a good one at times.

I've got two cans of beer down and the pizza still isn't done. Turns out I should have pre-heated the oven. Some bullshit, that is. I guess this is easier for someone who's actually cooked their own dinner before they got caught. I'm pretty sure I hadn't touched a stove in half a year. My culinary talent ends at bacon and eggs, and some sources say my eggs suck.

Can't say I disagree.

The doorbell sounds so shrill I drop can number three. It sickens me how my body tenses, fingers cramping into fists. I'm not expecting any visitors. Gotta be someone who rang the wrong door. I force my hands to stop shaking and reach for another cigarette. No more. No more wardens or guards or obnoxious gutter rats thinking they can play in my league. I'm out of the hierarchy and if I don't want to answer the door, I don't have to.

The realization settles in my gut. When the bell sounds again, it isn't unsettling, it is thrilling. I don't have to do it. I don't have to do anything. Eventually it stops, and I'm almost disappointed. Even this tiny act of rebellion against some unwritten rule of common sense fills me with ecstatic tingles. I'm not a lawful man. No prison can change that.. Now that there's a knock on the door, I'm growing suspicious. With a quick glance, I take in the layout of the flat. Ain't no good way out, but I can hold myself in a close brawl. No weapons. All I have is a pocket knife. It would pain me to break it, but my best chance might be the whiskey bottle I got myself on the third run for groceries.

"Mr. Graves?"

A shudder runs down my spine. It's a child. God knows I've got enemies, and I wouldn't put using kids past some of them. With the bottle in hand, I make for the door. I try and sneak, but I got heavy feet. If someone's waiting to kick the door in, they'll know once I'm in range.

"Are you home? Mr. Graves I have to pee…"

I won't fall for it. Can't hear anyone between the little girl whining about her bladder and assaulting the door with tiny fists. I wait. She doesn't leave. Nobody talking to her either. When she threatens to take a leak on my doormat, I can't help but laugh.

"I just got out of prison kiddo," I tell her, "I've smelled worse."

She's almost crying now. I'm still a good two steps away from the door, ready to duck back. The knocking stops.

"This is you, right?" she asks. Takes me a bit to realize she's showing me something through the spy hole. I used to play these games for hours, but now minutes are wearing me down. Still haven't eaten, my nerves are raw and maybe, just maybe I want to believe that I get one evening off before I'm swept up in hunting or being hunted again.

I slide towards the door, as silent as I can manage. Nothing happens. Feeling for any sign of pressure behind it, I press my palm against the wood. Again, nothing. My heart is beating so fast I might just faint. I didn't grind my teeth through years of prison to die in the most blunt set-up ever.

But it's not like that.

Could be a set up, but it's not blunt.

Beyond the spyhole, damn, she can't be older than ten. Dark hair, long and curly, under the ugliest hat I've ever seen. It's pointy, the rim curling up, and looks like it's seen some shit. I can't make out her face. She's holding her tiny arms stretched out to press a photograph towards the spyhole. My stomach doubles over.

"Is this you, Mister? Please, I really need to pee."

It's my wedding picture.

She's cute. Big, round eyes and a button nose. I show her the bathroom and she rushes in. Somehow I snatch the photograph from her. Should keep it. Not the kind of picture for a kid. 'specially not one like her. The hat's old and her tights are dirty, but not because either's cheap. Designer stuff. Rich kids like her, I learned to pickpocket on them.

Ain't no rich kids in the picture. Though, we did have money at the time. Lots of it. But we look ratched. It's obvious how wasted we were. I've got a bottle of beer in one hand and the other on his ass. Fine ass that is, in the lady pants he's wearing. He's wrapped around me, fingers in my hair and under my shirt. We had a photo just before and just after this one as well. In the one before, he's nibbling on my ear. In the one after, he's hurling on the floor. I'm the same in all three: Laughing.

Neither of us recalls much of that night, but with a picture like this, ain't no denying it - we were happy. For once in our lives, and against all odds, we were blissfully happy. No idea who took the photo. We have a copy each. One of the few things I brought to prison. First I wanted to burn it, or cut it, or something. Never did. Kept it as a reminder: _His_ face. The face I'm gonna hunt. I'd stare at it for hours imagining all the things I'll do to make him pay.

Mine's stashed somewhere between my pants, folded, torn around the edges and with stains of all sorts. Held it so often. This copy's clean and straight, nothing like the men it shows.

"You can keep it."

I look up from the picture to find the kid smiling at me. She's missing a tooth here and there. It's fucked up how she both does and doesn't look like him.

"Nah," I mutter, turning the photograph around.

The backside is plain, with a faded note down in the corner. _Malcolm &Tobias Graves_, it reads, with the date - well over ten years ago - scribbled beneath. As I thought then. Been forgotten in a box somewhere. Me, I can't forget. Never.

"Where'd ya get that?" I ask.

She shrugs.

"Daddy said you look a bit different now," she tells me, "but it wasn't hard to find you."

"Did yer daddy tell you to come here?"

I dread the answer, but she shakes her head.

"He left," she explains, though it ain't explaining much to me, "and I don't like the home."

He left. Sounds just like the bastard.

She pulls a face.

"I don't like Miss Kayle."

"An' who's that?"

Before she gets to answer, the oven beeps, and her face lights up. She hops over to the kitchen, leaving muddy footprints on the floor. Do I have cleaning stuff? I probably don't. Now that the smell of pizza takes over, I realize how little I've eaten all day. I've gone by on less, but ten years of regular meals leave a mark. 'nother thing I don't have, oven mitts. But I got a few towels, so I help myself with that.

"You can have some," I tell the kid, and she rips the package from my picnic plates. This whole get up looked less pathetic when I was by myself. Now I'm oddly aware of how barren the flat is. There's the sofa and the TV with fucking darts still on for some reason, a small table with two shaky plastic chairs and that's it. Bathroom has a little cupboard and the bedroom too, plus a bed of course. To me, it's a palace. Could've fit my cell twice into the open kitchen alone.

Kid's setting the table. Found the soda too. Good, can't exactly feed her beer. The pizza is too big for the plates, so I pop it back onto the cardboard it came in. Glamorous. She doesn't seem to mind. We eat with our hands, and she has tomato smeared across her face in no time. For some reason, she picks the pepperonis off, sets them aside, then eats them all at once. She also eats the crust first. Who the fuck eats the crust first?

 _His_ daughter, apparently.

He never did that, did he?

My gut clenches at the thought of him. There goes my appetite. Good thing she's here, like a little dog for the leftovers.

"You know what's good?" she asks me between two bites of pepperoni, "when you put pasta on there."

"Pasta?" I repeat. She nods.

"Or ice cream. Banana ice cream. Right in the middle where the cheese olives meet."

I run my fingers through my hair.

"The fuck does your father feed you?"

"Daddy won't let me eat that," she pouts, "but I make what I want when he's gone."

"An' he's gone a lot?"

Now she shrugs and tilts her head at me, like she doesn't understand the question.

"Of course he is. You know him, right?"

It takes me a while to answer.

This is all a bit much for my first day out. For fuck's sake, I spent ten years of my life in prison because of one guy, who wouldn't be thrown off by having that asshole's kid on their kitchen table? The whole concept of him being a father makes me want to puke. It reminds me that she's not a child, she's a weapon, and he's sharpened the blade before aiming it at me. Gotta be careful with what I tell her.

Especially if it's a ruse - the only proof linking them is the photo. If someone else gave her that, she could be spying on me for god knows whom. And then everything I say about him becomes valuable.

"I knew yer dad ten years ago," I finally say. Each word rolls slowly off my tongue; I'm still not sure they're the right ones.

"He's the same," she grins, although she's got no idea what he was like. All she has is the lies someone prepared for her. With a sigh, I open myself another can. That's what, my fourth beer? Counting the one I dropped.

"What's he told you about me?" I grumble. She goes on for ten minutes babbling 'bout pretty much everything from the day we met to the day he sold me. It's like watching your favorite movie in fast forward: You know all the scenes, and just a glimpse on each is enough to bring the entirety of it back. Moments dash through my tipsy head, chasing each other in a haze of glory and gore. Mine, not exactly a bedtime story.

Seems the kid knows pretty much all there is to know me from his point of view. Glad he left out all the drunk sex we had on the backseat of whatever car we were hijacking at the time. When she's finished listing all the ups and downs of it all, I just nod.

"Now ain't that glamorous," I sigh. "And why'd yer dad spill all the beans 'bout me?"

She tilts her head as if my question is pointless.

"Because you couldn't talk to me. You were locked up."

Damn kid ain't making much sense. Then again, she's raised by a nutcase.

Nutcase who apparently wanted her prepared to face me. Ten years and he's shitting his pants. Good.

I wonder, though. See, I'm a madman, too. Can't pretend the last decade didn't mess me up. I still don't get it. I need to know, but do I want to hear it from her? I guess not. It's gotta be him.

If he thought he'd get me off his tail by sending a child, then I'm no longer the dumb one between us.

Again, the doorbell rings. I raise an eyebrow.

"You got any siblings I should know about?" I grunt. The kid looks fidgety. When she darts around the corner, I see him in her movement, and I choke on my pizza. It's the way she presses herself against the wall, how she peaks through the window from what little shadow she can find. He taught her that. Why would a kid need to know?

She goes pale.

"Don't open," she pleads, "they don't even let me keep Pix!"

"Mr. Graves?" asks a female voice from the door. "This is child protective services."  
I can't help but roll my eyes. Not a day and I'm already in trouble with some office again. The kid's looking at me with wide eyes. So that's his plan, then. Not quite the feds yet, but I've barely got a foot out the door and already someone's grabbing for my boot. And with the kid, he can track me.

I ain't buying into that.

"Alright," I holler, "playtime's over."

She's easy enough to scoop up, small and lightweight. Struggles like a cat in a bag, but she's missing the claws. Her elbow hits me in the gut a couple times, but it's not packing any punch. Funny enough, she doesn't scream. That's always been my problem - I've got a temper, and a loud mouth to match it.

All the impatience the woman's been harboring, I feel it released once I open the door. She's a tall, athletic blonde with cold blue eyes, but a face that smiles easily.

"This the one you're lookin' for?" I ask as I drop the kid to her feet. She's well behaved enough not to run back inside, but all my nudging won't get her to walk over to the woman.

"Please Miss Kayle," she whines. Tiny fingers curl into my shirt. The child protective service lady - Miss Kayle, apparently - kneels down to meet the kid on eye level.

"You can't just run away like that," she explains, her voice soft, the words picked with care. "People worry about you, Lulu. We had no idea where you were."

I chuckle. No idea my ass.

"If you didn't," I remark, "how come you're here?"

Kayle's smile cracks a bit as the corners of her lips twitch with disapproval.

"Mr. Graves," she says. There is an edge to it now, threats weaved into speech. It's an old pattern to me. Subtle, too, so I ain't good at replicating it. "I hope you understand that, although we are inclined to keep family together, we have our doubts over acknowledging your custody rights. Lulu has had little stability in her life, and with your recent past, I am not convinced you can provide that for her."

The kid, Lulu, is clinging to me with tears in her eyes - bright green. Not his, then. She's shaking like a leaf and I feel sorry for her, I do, but I don't have the nerve to entertain a grade schooler right now. Even if that grade schooler could lead me to her father so I can put a bullet in his cocky face…

No. I haven't got the nerve. Kayle talks like the kid isn't going anywhere for the time being. First I gotta put myself back together. I've barely eaten all day, so my stomach is pretty much running on beer right now, and I smell like it. Lately my skin is sickly pale and my eyes are bloodshot from how little sleep I get. I look like a ghost.

"Please, Miss Kayle."

Seems Lulu isn't scared of ghosts.

"He's my Dad."

I can't help but stare down at her, and she meets my gaze with question and resolve alike. Her face is turning spotty from all the crying.

"Like hell I am!"

I cross my arms in front of my chest. Ten years of prison, so she's way too young. I like sex, but I ain't stupid. You gotta be pretty drunk to forget the condom, to the point where I'm too drunk to do, let alone father anything. Plus for a couple years before they caught me, I had an ass to fuck.

"I don't know who you are," I remind the kid. "You just showed up here with a damn picture of me."

"But you're my Dad," she whimpers as if she hasn't heard me.

If she didn't sigh right about now, I might have forgotten Kayle's even there.

"Lulu," she asks softly, "would you please wait in the car?"

Defeated, the kid strolls away to an unsuspecting van in muddy blue. Kayle watches her all the way to the door. Only when Lulu is inside and out of earshot does she turn back to me.

"I admit the circumstances of Lulu's adoption were rather… unconventional," she says. "That is why I was hoping to arrange for a supervised visit, but alas, Lulu tends to make up her own rules."

By now, she's starting to annoy me. This isn't my problem. I don't even get half of what she's talking about. My hands are getting twitchy, I need a smoke.

"Let me be honest, Mr. Graves, I don't believe you are suited to enforce your custody for Lulu right now."

"Custody?" I repeat. She mentioned that before. Damn my attention span today.

Kayle nods, her lips pursed with disapproval, and I'm pissed. None of this makes sense, and I've had it. No idea what this shit is all about, but it's not my problem.

"I ain't got the faintest clue who this kid is!" I proclaim, and shouting makes me feel more like the man I once was again. I'm gesturing wildly at the car for a moment, which immediately prompts Kayle to push her hands into her hips and straighten her back. She's taller than me actually, if only by a bit.

"She is your daughter!" she yells back. We glare at each other for a moment before Kayle looks over her shoulder to check that the sudden volume didn't scare the kid, and I allow my jaw to drop for a moment.

I ain't got no fucking daughter.

"It's been a bit over three years since you adopted her," Kayle explains, still focussed on the car. Lulu is slumped down on the passenger seat, head hanging and probably still in tears.

"You do realize I was in prison," I grunt.

"Yes I do realize that," Kayle says sharply. Her head darts around. Another time, another me would have complimented the fire in her eyes.

"And believe me Mr. Graves, I would never have sanctioned this whole mess, but here we are. I have taken personal interest in this case because apparently my duty in life is to clean up after my sister, and I will not let this charade continue.

Once you've sobered up, you can give me a call. Perhaps by then you'll remember starting the most dysfunctional family I've seen in my entire career."

But I don't.

First of all, I don't sober up. The pizza is cold by now and I step on the beer can I dropped earlier. Feels like hours since that. I sit on the couch again, and I crack open the whiskey. The evening drizzles into night as I down half the bottle. It's me, the booze and another stupid show about unimportant people living less important lives.

Second, I don't remember.

It didn't happen, and I know it. Ten fucking years of prison and there's no way I've seen that kid before. Of course child protective services won't know, but I wouldn't be surprised to find my handwriting on a bunch of things. We were partners for so long, we knew how to forge each other's real and fake signatures. He could've signed me up for a dozen different things with five or so names, and even I'd have a hard time spotting it. Ten years and I figured he'd have the courtesy to get us a divorce that way.

I drink, I smoke, and at some point I make it over to the kitchen. Kid left the picture here. It looks blurry in the dim light of the TV screen, but I guess that's just me getting hammered. I'm staring at it with the voice of some sports reporter trying to sound excited in my ears. When did I switch back to the darts channel? How is darts still on?

It's all a joke, but I can't bring myself to laugh.

Apparently we're still married.

And apparently we're parents, too.

How you know what it's like  
When good luck has changed the sides

When your life turns upside down it breaks your heart  
When you get crushed in a house of cards

 **Twisted Fate**

Damn, I should be drinking right now. Thirteen hours on the road and I'm flat like a pancake. My body is half asleep, so trying to put food into it doesn't seem to work out quite as well as I need it to. I almost doze off chewing on a strip of bacon. Cheap diner food tastes heavenly at four in the morning, even if it's so greasy that puddles are collecting on your plate. Granted I can't see beans anymore, 'cause that's half of what I live off on the road. There's a whole box of canned goods on the passenger seat. At this point, the car smells like a pickle jar. I don't have much time to shop for things, and I try and stay on the more obscure little routes through areas that hardly count for populated. The best is when you manage to stop at an actual farm. Good meals paid in cash, so nobody can track your cards, and if you ask the right questions, you can usually find out how to avoid traffic and the cops.

If we're not in a hurry, I always let Lulu charm 'em into giving her a tour. She's great with animals and it makes up for another few hours with nothing but fields and concrete. Granted, she can spend days just looking out of a window. For a child her age, she's pretty patient.

Thinking about my daughter makes my stomach clench. I put the half-eaten bacon down and start picking at my eggs instead. It's been far too long since I've seen her. I've tried getting to her four times now, but I always get cut off. Sometimes it feels like every track to south Texas is littered with people looking for me. My best effort so far was when I made it all the way to Cuba and then took a boat back, and the damn lunatic was waiting for me at the harbour. I was within hours of the shitty suburb, but all I did was start another goosechase.

I haven't given up yet, but it's tiring. Back in the day I was on trips like this all the time, but I could go wherever I wanted. It's different when you have something to return for. More complicated.

Wouldn't change a thing though. If anything, being separated shows how much you care for a person. It's fucked up to not have your child with you. Then again, it's fucked up for a guy like me to even have a child to begin with. She's my world.

The scrambled eggs are all but cold, and at this point, very scrambled. I keep pushing bits and pieces around on the plate until it's all too torn apart to fit onto my fork. Perhaps I'm not actually hungry. Perhaps I'm just sitting here because I had to get out of the car for a bit. The coffee is good, though. Usually I don't like it that strong. Half a cup could wake a dead man. I'm on my third.

There was a time when my body worked off a not so carefully balanced mix of caffeine and alcohol. Now that I'm properly on the run again, I'm sliding back into old habits. Of course I try not to take it too far. I can't afford a black out - not while I'm alone. Back in the day, if I decided to pass out on the sidewalk again, I'd have a partner or a crew to drag me into the car and drive off. If I wake up with a hangover tomorrow, I'll still be lying on that same sidewalk. I can't afford staying anywhere for that long.

Especially not when I'm expecting to stay a week or so once I reach Los Angeles. For two years now, it's been a bit of a base of operations. I tried having Lulu go to school there, but we ain't the settling kind it seems. She got pretty upset when I travelled alone and skipped class more than she attended it. Still, we've got the place in L.A., so that's where I'm headed for now.

I need to recharge a bit before my next attempt. Once I've got her, we're out. I don't know to where yet. Maybe I'll let her decide. Canada could be an option, though I don't like the cold. I've been to Mexico too often to like it, but we might give South America a try. Or Europe. I've never been to Europe. It seems like the kind of place for Lulu.

Fact is, the lunatic as I like to call her has chased me all across the states and back again. I've got a pretty good idea of her methods by now. From what I've gathered, her name is Kalista, she was an FBI agent on an old case I was involved with and somehow got obsessed with me. I'd say I'm flattered if her persistence wasn't ruining my life. At this point I've exhausted pretty much all my fake IDs and credit cards, and I'm sure that even though I've taken care not to drop my real name, she knows exactly who I am.

When I was younger, there wasn't much of a point in hiding all that. I used my real identity the same way I used the fake ones so there wouldn't be much point to attack it. That all changed when Lulu came into my life. There is a few things I've signed with my real name for a purpose. My daughter is among those ties that made me want to form a real person behind all the acts and plays. So if I want to keep her safe, I can't have people know the real me, because that's the one who has a kid.

I let something happen to him, I risk it hurting her.

People in my line of work tend to not commit to responsibility like that. It's the point where we stop. I tried. I really did. But a past as checkered as mine, it catches up with you. No clue how that Kalista chick found me, but she's determined to put me behind bars. Can't have that.

My cup is empty, and at this point all I have to do is raise my hand to order a refill.

"Will you be finishing that?" the waitress asks, pointing at my plate.

I shake my head.

"Nah."

The eggs are chewy and I'm half convinced the next bacon strip will give me a heartattack. Although my diet has been shit, I've slimmed down from all the stress. Got the face of a corpse. Some days I feel like one, too. This ain't the high life. Not like I remember it. The thrill is gone. The adrenaline. When you land a big hit, it's like a drug. It washes over you and makes you feel like you own the world. Granted, those hits are hard to get, but I was good. I was damn good. And I knew the right people.

Now that I think about it, the big thrill for me wasn't even the plan itself. It was the ending, the out. That was my role: I was in charge of our exit strategy. When everything else had already fallen into place, my work only just began. Then once I had the crew out, we'd have our rewards to share and drink away.

I'm not sure if happy is the right word for what I felt like. Bliss and happiness aren't always the same. Hell, we were so jacked up half the time we wouldn't even know what either meant. I never got into any of the hard stuff, but there was hardly a day where I didn't reek of booze.

What can I say, I was young. It was all fun and games. Made a fortune or two. Then I lost that all, of course. The money and more. Can't say I regret it. Men like me, we live our whole life as a gamble. You win some and you lose some. If you let either change you, you ain't cut out for this. When you win, you spend it, and when you lose, you get it back elsewhere. You can't linger, and you can't slow down.

I learned that the hard way.

Ten years ago, I lingered. It wasn't easy, turning my back on that whole mess, but I know a lost cause when I see one. I'd already wasted too much on trying to fix it. What little I had left to give would have just gotten me killed, and how would that have solved anything?

And then with Lulu, I slowed down.

I had to. Can't raise a child on my lifestyle. The secret is, I actually liked it. We had it good. Although I'd never admit it, I'm pretty sure I was lonely before her. Men like me, community is everything to us. We rely on the fact that we have contacts. For a long time, I had a tight little group I could rely on. Ah. Good old days.

I don't think I can go for another coffee without turning into a medical mystery, so I savour every tiny sip now. From here on, it's straight north west. I'm already in California, so it won't be that much longer.

"Now will you look at that."

I dart up. My body is twitchy from all the caffeine, but I recognize the face, if not the voice.

"If it isn't the Magnificent Twisted Fate," he chimes as he slides into my booth.

"Fuck's sake, will you drop that?" I grunt. "I don't call you Count either."

"Oh, I certainly wouldn't mind it."

Of course he wouldn't. Vladimir's just as much a self-centered dandy as I am. It's why we get along so well - that and the fact he's one of the few people who can drink me under the table. Good thing he won't do that here. I might have offered him my leftover breakfast, but he quickly orders waffles for himself.

"So what's it take to drag you out here?" I ask him. Vladimir shrugs.

"Ah, the usual," he replies. "Ran some errands down south, so now I'm heading back to Vegas."

"I take it you still work for Noxus then?"

"At times. They pay a lot better than they used to, but I mostly do my own thing."

His waffles arrive a lot faster than my bacon did, and they actually look edible. I'm contemplating a second order, but I'm not sure I can manage it.

There is a TV in the corner of the diner, and now that Vladimir is starting on his food, I take the time to notice the program. I haven't spent much thought on it lately, but Noxus Network has gone through the roof. If I'd gotten sucked in, I could have made good money, but I'm not sure media is my field. Vladimir seems to be doing well enough for himself.

When we met, we were both hanging around the Las Vegas Strip. I mostly gambled at the time; it was an effort to reclaim my former glory, but a poor one. I wasn't as into it as I had been, drained from all the bullshit behind me. Vladimir's the flashy sort. He got me into work with Noxus for a while, doing a show on performers along the strip. It was fun enough, the whole stage magician number, but Vegas isn't the kind of city you stay in. I quit when it started to bore me.

Noxus Network was tiny back then, a regional channel. From what I heard, it was mostly the management shift that marked their golden era. Never met the new guy, but you can't get around them now when you switch on TV. Mindless entertainment is still their strength, and they push the numbers up by pissing on the government. It's quite a delight to watch sometimes.

"Any of our old folk still with the channel?"

Again, Vladimir shrugs.

"Just me in Vegas. The rest felt fancy and moved to L.A., but I think some are still there. Janna, of course. Remember Janna?"

"Sure do," I laugh. It feels good to laugh again. "Hard to tell it's her with all those clothes on though."

"She's done well enough for herself," Vladimir agrees. "Rumor has it she'll make co-anchor. Unless Kat somehow gets her name back in the race, that is."

Katarina, I don't know her that well. She was with the channel before me, and only did some remote production on the program I was part of. I do remember her story, though. Everyone does. Noxus brought out the big guns when they entered reality TV, and Katarina was their ticket in.

"Haven't heard from her since that affair blew over."

"Exactly," Vladimir comments. "She was in every tabloid for humping that politician, but that's about it. Knowing Darius, he'll try to stir up something for the upcoming election, but I don't know if anyone will fall for such an old ruse again."

"Darius?" I ask, and Vladimir pulls a face.

"One of the top dog producers," he explains, "not sure you ever met him. He was already big around your time, but now that his brother is on every damn show, he pretty much runs the channel."

He makes a dismissive gesture.

"But let's not talk about my work," he suggests, "yours are usually the better stories."

"Not sure I have any good ones," I muse.

"You're pretty tuned down now that you're a father, huh?"

I study him as he works his way through the waffles. Vladimir is, surprisingly, a methodical person. When you first meet him, he seems flimsy and fleeting, but he really isn't. He's struck roots. People know him around the strip, and he takes advantage of that. For Vladimir, appearing on TV was a good deal, because he likes to be seen. I enjoyed that, too. There is something about being adored, if only for a moment, that turns a man into a fool.

It doesn't work for me to be famous. Good money, yes, but I couldn't do with such exposure. Like so many things in my life, I guess it was fun while it lasted.

"Have to be," I answer after a while. "Granted, I've got a kid who can't sit still."

"Well it's not like you were ever good at that, either. Is it true you are on the run again?"

The thing with trusting people is, you can do it safely as long as you have leverage. Vladimir is knee deep in some obscure drug stories, so I can always be relaxed around him. Plus, he isn't much of a businessman. Even if selling me out would benefit him, I doubt he could be bothered to do it. We both enjoy an extravagant lifestyle, him more so than me. Vladimir has enough going on without picking feuds.

"Some crazed ex-fed," I explain. "Caught me when I was trying to tie up things down in Texas, and she's hard to shake off."

"What does she look like?"

I shrug.

"Tall, slender. Dark hair. Pale like a wall."

Vladimir sighs and pulls my half empty coffee mug to his side of the table.

"You might want to start running then," he mutters, and I understand without turning around. This is why having a partner is good: They watch the window when you're too tired or shitfaced for it. I get out of the booth and fish a twenty dollar bill from my pocket. Vladimir has effectively claimed my coffee for himself and there is no trace of me left on the table. I'm out through the back just as the front door swings open.

I drive slowly off the parking lot and then speed like a maniac once I'm around the corner. It angers me how close I let her get. If Vladimir hadn't been there, I wouldn't have noticed until she came through the door. Why did I leave the car here? I should have parked it a couple of blocks away so it wouldn't give up my location. That's how fucked up I was from all the driving, then. I saw the diner and all I could think about was coffee. The nights are still pretty cold at this time of the year, and when you're stuck in a car seat for as long as me, you need to get some warm fluid into your system every now and then. My limbs are still stiff, but at least they feel like they're part of me again.

I've got the radio running. During journeys like this one, I switch station every couple of days. They tend to have a limited playlist and hearing the same bubbly pop song over and over again would drive anyone nuts. This isn't my car, of course. I had to ditch it somewhere in Oklahoma. Considering the pickles, I'm kind of glad this is another stolen ride. I've got a cabriolet at our place in Los Angeles, but those aren't for road trips. At least not for the ones where you sleep in your car half the time.

I was going to check into a motel, but now I can't afford it. That damn hag got too close. It sucks. I could have really used a shower. Can't have that now.

I've been chased by cops before. It comes with making a career out of cheating people. Turns out the police doesn't appreciate a good swindle, who would have thought? And if you get big enough, the feds start noticing you. Some wear it like a badge of pride. I used to. Oh, I was big. Used to run the show, me and my crew. In this game, people come and go. You stick with the same group too long, you're asking to get caught. But you find a few here and there that you always get back with.

My crew, we had a big thing every couple months. In between we'd split up. Do our own thing. Then when one of us stumbled over something good, we'd flock back together. Meet up, make plans. It was a constant circle. A couple of times we had to bail out a comrade who got caught, or get our hands dirty in some larger dispute we'd gotten caught up in. Fun times.

And in those down times between two hits, we were filthy rich. Lots of cool things to do when you've got money in these parts. The American Dream really favours those who are too high on coke to think about tomorrow. A couple of times we went down to Tijuana and partied 'till we forgot how miserable our own country was. People like me, we stand proof to why capitalism sucks. Not that I'm complaining, I had it good. Most in my crew were certifiably bad at dealing with money. Or perhaps we just threw it all out of the window right away so we had an excuse to conjure up another scheme.

I'm not going to lie, I've got an expensive taste. I was raised without money, so when I get any, I like to spend it on things that prove I'm worth something now. We're not all like that - many in my crew could get by on little. I can, too, I just don't like it. It reminds me of when I was a romni boy with nothing to my name. That's no longer me. When we moved to L.A., I had a few run ins with the local Romnichal community. They made it rather clear that I've gone gorger, and I'm fine with that. I haven't really been in touch with the culture for a long time now, and I don't see a point in going back to it.

Lulu seems to like it. I once took her to a horse show in Texas, near where I grew up. It was an event I faintly remembered from my own childhood, and oddly enough, it hadn't changed much. After a few hours, I blended in just fine. We had perfect weather for being outside, warm and just the right amount of windy. Lulu looked like a perfect little cowgirl. She had new friends within five minutes of us being there. I had a hard time keeping track of her, so I just gave up after a while. As long as she knows where we're parked, she'll find her way back.

I found her again after a few hours when she had convinced some kid twice her age to take her pony riding. That's my favourite picture of her: Sitting in a western style saddle, clutching the horn with one hand and waving at me with glee in her eyes. I've got it tucked in my purse, which is dumb, but I can't help it. She's my girl. It's all I can do to keep her close.

I wouldn't raise her in the culture I was brought up in, though. As fascinated as she was with the old wagons and the fortune tellers, that's not really what it's all about. Romni girls are pretty sheltered, and I doubt that would play well with my little wildcard. Plus single Dads aren't really a thing in Romnichal communities.

Then again, I'm not all that single anymore.

I notice the date when the news run. My last three or four days were a haphazard blur of roads and gas stations, so I forgot how time passed around me. Now it's six in the morning and the day I've been dreading is behind me. Nothing special has happened, but that's probably because I am a thousand miles west from Houston, Texas.

I did my research down south, and it's frightening how many of his old contacts are still in the area. Granted, they've had ten years to move on, but Malcolm ran with loyal packs before we met. Some won't have forgotten the favors they might owe him. I can't tell how long it'll take him to get back on the road, but from what I've heard, he's as pissed as ever.

Suddenly, I am tired. It is as if all the caffeine got washed out of my bloodstream in the two or three minutes it takes the radio to inform me over whatever petty politics are supposed to make me worry today. I feel heavy. Like all my stress and worries have materialized in the form of stones, and someone put them in the pockets of my coat.

I glance over at the empty passenger seat. Running is fun when you run together. No need to have the radio on when someone's snore is keeping you awake. Malcolm snored like a pig, so there's that. Clever me was planning to have all of this dealt with by the time he got out. I was careful, I went months in advance. All the way down to Houston. At first I didn't want to take Lulu with me, but I knew it was going to take a while, and she gets upset when I stay away for too long.

I should not have brought her.

Damn it, I should not have brought her!

I was knee-deep in tracking down old contacts in the area, scooping out the situation my darling husband would find once the prison doors opened. The coastal part of Texas was always his territory, so I'm not surprised that some of his friends were salty to see me. It didn't seem like they were holding his grudge against me, though. It was a relief to find the playing field is even, because that puts me in the advantage. He won't know where I am, and he once he finds out, he won't know how to get to me. A lot can change in ten years.

But then the lunatic caught me. I guess I stuck around for too long. I wanted to be sure - and Lulu was excited to be in a new city. She knew why we went there. There is no secrets between us. I always told her she'd have two dads one day, so of course she was giddy about this. She's a smart kid. She sees the world for what it is, and for what it could be at the same time. I've had to tell my story a lot of times, but Lulu is the only person who ever really got it.

Leaving her behind was one of the most painful things I ever had to do. There was no other choice - Kalista doesn't care to catch me alive, and I was scared she might take my daughter hostage. That doesn't seem to be her play, but at the time, I couldn't be sure. I was going to shake her off like I've done a dozen times before and then come to get Lulu, but I haven't even made it close so far.

And the worst part is, I didn't just leave her anywhere. She is right in his reach, with half a dozen shady people that could get her to him. This is not how I wanted things to pan out. Yes, she has a right to him - I set that up, so I'll own it. I felt like she deserved someone else. Like she shouldn't be punished for being dealt me, for the fact that I am apparently incapable of running a proper relationship. But what I promised her was a father, and I don't think Malcolm Graves, fresh out of prison, is ready to be that.

There's nothing I can do about it now. Not right away, at least. I feel anger boiling up in my gut, and the only way for me to release it is speeding up. The landscape rushes by me, hills growing into mountains. I don't have time. Not for sleep or showers or sugary diner coffee. I'm running as fast as I can, but I still don't have time to deal with three things at once.

First, I need to get rid of Kalista. So far I've never gone more than a week without her popping up with a gun ready. It can't go on like this. I need her out of the way, for good. She's the reason I'm even in this mess to begin with. If she hadn't shown up, I would still be with Lulu, and we'd be having adventures somewhere way out of Malcolm's reach.

Second, I need to deal with Malcolm. Hopefully that won't be quite as dramatic. He never had the finesse for a long chase like this. The stamina, certainly, but he'll be easier to evade. I just need to get past him, then I'll be faster. I have to outgun Kalista so I can outrun Malcolm. Ten years ago, Malcolm would have done the shooting for me.

The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It's hard to admit that, were things as they've once been, it wouldn't be half as scary to have the FBI breathing down my neck. Malcolm never cared who he was shooting at. But I can't count on him for this. I need to do things my way, even if that makes it complicated.

Third and final, I have to get my daughter back. I don't care what it takes. I don't care how many bridges I burn.

She's my child, and nothing will keep me from her.

It's so hard to find a way when life is in pieces  
And the taste of a kiss is so bittersweet  
Sometimes it's easy to forget only for a moment  
But the man who will rise up from the ashes is no one else but me

I'm standing in a waterfall  
To wash the lies way

House of Cards, Scorpions


	2. Death

**Death**

When I was a child I'd sit for hours

Staring into open flames

Something in it had a power,

Could barely tear my eyes away

 **Twisted Fate**

Thanks to having lived here for a while, I manage to reach Los Angeles without Kalista banging down my door right away. That's good. Very, very good. I pass out in the bedroom without so much as kicking my boots off. After about six hours of sleep, which isn't nearly enough to compensate for the hell that lies behind me, I wake up again. Our bathtub is lined with Lulu's collected rubber duckies. She has a thing for finding the ones with little errors in the paint, so not only are all of them cheesy, they also tend to have lopsided eyes. In my state, it looks like an army of drugged little demons is waiting for the moment to jump in and drown me. We've got a corner bath, so there is plenty of space for my assortment of soaps as well as the toy kraken Lulu likes to bathe with.

I pick the kraken up and twist my fingers around its tentacles while hot water streams into the tub. One thing I love about Lulu is how easy she is to spoil. She certainly has her own taste, but it's easy enough to get her presents. Yet when I have to uproot her and leave quickly, she doesn't need all that much. Half of the time she doesn't even pack any clothes except for a hat or two, so I have to remind her that she'll need a couple of dresses, or we go shopping at our destination.

Her fingerprints are all over the house. Hell, even the fact I own a house stems from her. It's oddly comforting to have a place that just waits for you. Like a perfect little bubble preserved in time. When the road is your home, you get used to the fact that cities change each time you wash up there. You're never in one location long enough to witness the transitions happening, you just jump in here and there. I kinda liked that.

Coming here though, to our house, everything is always just the way we left it. Last time we weren't in a hurry. I checked that nothing in the fridge could learn how to walk in my absence, and I cleaned the entire place. It's all neat and proper still, albeit with some dust starting to settle. I both love and hate it here. Being on the road again showed me that. Perhaps neither life is the right answer for me any longer.

The warm water soothes my tangled limbs. I pour in some of Lulu's bubble bath. It's bright green and smells of citrus fruits, of limes and spring. We're heading into summer, so coastal California turns both unbearably hot and humid. In the years we've lived here, I've always taken a trip elsewhere over these months. Last time we crawled all the way up north to Alaska. The landscape was stunning. Somewhat too deserted for me, but Lulu is rarely as happy as when you just drop her in nature.

I'm not. I'm a city man, I guess.

It's hard to tell.

I lie in the bathtub until the water goes cold. Sucks that I can't stay here. It's too obvious with my name on the damn door. _T. Graves._ Being the good little housewife that I am not, I took my husband's name at the wedding. Lulu has his last name, too. I figured he didn't need it all that much in prison, anyways, and I didn't want my daughter and me to run under different names. Sure, I could have gone back to my old name, but I never liked that one. That's why I took Malcolm's in the first place.

I never put Lulu's name on the sign. It's a precaution. Some of my enemies might not know about her, though I doubt it. Perhaps it's just an old habit.

There's some preserved food in the storage, but I've lived out of tin cans for too long already. It's afternoon by now, so I decide to eat out. After wearing the same shirt for a week, opening my closet feels like heaven. It smells like fresh laundry, like being properly dressed for once. I wonder if I can risk swapping out my entire travel bag, but leaving the dirty clothes would give away that I was here. Instead I pack a new one, leaving enough clothes that my wardrobe still looks fully stocked. I toss the wet towel in the dirty bag and grab a fresh one to take with me. With my style of travel, you lose things all the time, so I happily grab a few of my cosmetic products as well. It's not like you can't get soap or shaving cream everywhere, but there is something about using the same brands as you have at home that makes a man remember who he is, and some of my stuff is the fancy sort you can't buy at roadside convenience stores.

I contemplate taking a few things from Lulu's room, but it feels like I would be jinxing it. Her door is always open, but I still can't bring myself to walk in. I just stand in the doorframe for a few moments and wallow in self-pity.

With a sigh, I turn around and finish my business here. In the bedroom, I set the cheesy day blanket that came with the house and prop the pillows up so the bed looks unused. Then I go back to the bath and wipe away what moisture I can find. Good thing I've done so little here. Makes it easier to erase my tracks.

I've already ditched the car a couple miles out of the city. There's a guy who pretty much just rotates stolen cars for people who're moving in or out of Los Angeles, so you can fake going somewhere. If Kalista is dumb enough to fall for it, she'll think I'm going to San Diego for a couple of days, while I'm helping some petty drug dealer pretend like he's still in town. Us shady folks gotta stick together.

I won't keep this ride for long, of course. Can't be bothered to be dragged into someone else's business. It got me here, and now I retire it on some parking spot in the city centre that I should have paid for. Whoever owned the car once might be happy to find it through the parking ticket. What a nice guy I am sometimes. I take the subway from here.

After running into Vladimir, I feel like losing myself in a loud and jacked up place, so I head for West Hollywood. Although he's in Las Vegas most of his time, Vladimir started out here after leaving New York. He was a proper club kid, one of those weirdos who'll still tell you how fashion forward they were once. He might be working for Noxus Network, but apparently he can't stand being too close to the office, so he started living in Vegas full time around the time when Noxus was establishing its main studios here in L.A., which must be about five, six years back now. Vladimir is one of those guys who likes to be independent and run things by his own nose.

I find a cheap hotel where the reception doesn't ask too many questions, and check in with one of my newer aliases. I've got an ID, two credit cards and even a driver's license on this guy, so I should be good using him for a while. Most important, I don't think I've brought him out since Kalista started chasing me, and I rarely used him before. Some of my aliases have Lulu built into them, so that's the ones I pick up if I want to go unnoticed with her. If I'm lucky, Kalista doesn't track this identity yet. That might buy me another couple of days while I lay out a battle plan.

Late afternoon is a calm time in this neighborhood. Part of me wants to go to a club tonight and see what the vibe is like these days, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to get hammered. In the places I prefer, you never really know what's in your drink, and I'm tired enough from the trip here to be knocked off my feet by natural causes. Maybe another night, once I've convinced myself that I can spare a few hours to unwind.

That's the thing, really. Back when Malcolm and I hit the road together, there was always room to get messed up. Now I'm scampered all the time. It sucks. I miss being pissdrunk and waking up in another city. There was a certain charm to those kind of hangovers.

I roam the streets for food and end up with a small, sweaty place that serves giant burritos for a price that makes me doubt the contents. It feels good to use my legs for something other than a gas pedal, so I eat while walking. What would be a messy endeavour for someone else is long from staining my shirt. Clumsy is a word never used to describe me.

It's impossibly sunny still and I'm happy for my hat. As much as I want to feel adventurous, it's good to know that I'll be staying for more than a night. Wandering around with my burrito I probably look like a tourist. In a way I am - I haven't been here enough to feel like a local. The only place I'm a local is the backseat of cars that aren't mine.

Maybe I should steal a motorcycle next. Switch things up a bit. Now that I'm in California, a roof isn't such a necessity anymore and I look good in leather. I continue with my burrito and loop back around so I don't stray too far from my hotel. People are passing me by, eager to get to the clubs. They're too early, the sun is barely setting. Granted the liquor is cheap now, but if they're going to a show, they'll only see shit ones for a few hours. A couple years back, I went to this obscure little bar in Pittsburgh, and man, the drag queens there were dirty. Now, I know West Hollywood can be raw and flirty, but I remember dog masks and furry boots, pure sex served up on stage by men in wigs and studded bras. It was punk and porn at the same time. Proper counter-culture.

Los Angeles is never quite down on its knees where I'd like it. I guess I'm not a city man after all - I'm a dirty alley man, I'm a shady bar man. I'm a stolen car backseat fuck my face or let me sleep man.

Really, why would anyone want me dead? I'm such a delight.

The burito is too much for me to finish, so I throw away the soggy rest where all the sauce collects. Good stuff. Food never fails to make me feel more alive. Food and sex, but alas, one can't have it all. I slide my hands into my pockets and enjoy the fading sunlight on my face for a while. It feels good not to think about the FBI or the guy I'm technically married to, even if only for a few minutes. Naturally my train of thoughts swings back to Malcolm as soon as gay sex and raunchy bars come up. Ah, we had it good for a while.

I come by an old office building. It's pretty unspectacular from the outside, red bricks and tall, blind windows, but I know the address. Back when, this was in use for Noxus Network. The chief editor at the time liked to work from an area that was still awake at three in the morning. We crossed paths a few times. Shady woman, but powerful. She always seemed to know much more about things, including me, than would be healthy for a single person.

What was her name again?

I glance up at the building, but the entire floor is empty and dark. Noxus moved on to more expensive streets and bigger offices. I wonder if they still blackmail journalists into giving up their sources. Fun times, that was. Vladimir and I were in the more superficial side of things, but then again, we were in Las Vegas, so we got our share of soirees with dubious guests.

Now I've been standing in front of the office for so long that the other tourists are gathering around me. They point up at the empty windows, mumbling if this was once an important place. It was, and it wasn't. In our modern age, information is more valuable than money. If you have it, and a channel to expose it through, you're in control over whatever is affected by that information. Noxus Network has always specialized in mindless entertainment, but the political messages they sneak into it are powerful enough to sway governments. Plus, they have the coin now to buy themselves into anything Jericho Swain shows the tiniest interest in.

What got them big was when they messed up a local election a few years ago. One of their reporters, a pretty little minx called Katarina, seduced one of the staff members of the campaign favorite, and because she was running a segment on her own mildly interesting life, it was all caught on tape. The affair escalated into a scandal and Noxus Network was right there to document it all. Packaged into bite-sized episodes, it exploded all over national television and the internet.

Every media outlet at the time was trying to get onto the story, but Noxus kept it under lock. All footage bore their logo, or was sold for triple its value. I remember the same short clips running on every TV station. It wasn't even that big of a deal, if you look at it - the guy wasn't running himself, he was the personal assistant to one of the candidates, and from what I heard behind the scenes, the relationship was genuine, albeit short-lived. Hell, I've met her once or twice and Katarina is one of the smartest women in this godforsaken country. She's got a temper though, and that gets in the way of her ambition. Her own company employs people who can outplay her through patience and strategy.

If she wasn't always a pawn, she made herself one back then by surrendering her private life to television. It's a line Vladimir and I were careful not to cross - we played roles, with silly nicknames and costumes ready. True, Katarina made a couple times our salary with that one show, but she's stuck where I'm not. For years now she's always been the girl who did that guy, and now that his employer is running in the next election, I suppose it's all coming back.

Perhaps I should call up Janna. We haven't really spoken in years, but it sounds like her life got a lot more exciting since I met her in a tiny club in Las Vegas with bad lighting and an overuse of the smoke machine. How impossibly young she was back then. Too young for me, and more so Malcolm, who's three years older. Sweet girl. She does a good job over at Noxus, and probably one of the rare few that aren't bordering on illegal at times. Now I think I should definitely call her up.

I shortcut back to the hotel, avoiding the tourists and early drunks. Even establishments without pay TV have Noxus Network running for free; the channel bought that privilege for a lot of money, and I can't imagine how much it's made back. When I switch it on, some lame game show is running. It's nine o'clock on a weekday, so I'm not surprised. Like pretty much everything Noxus considers half-decent, the show is hosted by Draven, a flashy narcissist who, at this point, is just as famous for his charisma as he is for looking bad in blonde hair.

The format is little else than a parade of celebrities, none of which get as much screen time as the host himself, with some mildly embarrassing games chucked their way. In between rounds, the celebrities get to plug whatever their current claim to fame is, and then Draven drops borderline bully comments about it. People like him because he's an ass. It's like that with most of the on-screen talent. I turn down the volume when the laughter and over the top musical score starts to annoy me. Then I grab the information sheet about room service and the check-out times. I turn it around, find a pen with the hotel's logo fading on the grip, and I start making a list.

First, as if to convince myself, I list all my old contacts that Kalista seems to know about. That's pretty much all of them, or at least all the useful ones. I've exhausted most connections already in the last hide and seek. My usual network is off limits. Even if there are some that Kalista hasn't spotted yet, Malcolm would know, and sooner or later it would bite me in the ass to rely on them.

So I set up a second list. I start with Vladimir and Janna, and then go on to name every Noxus Network employee that might still listen to what I have to say. Unfortunately I never crossed paths with Swain and his personal monkey army. Vladimir told me about the new management when it sprung into action. He seemed alright with it, although he doesn't agree with Swain's assistant Darius all that much. What that means for me is mostly that Vlad isn't my way in. If I want to convince someone at a national TV station to help me get rid of an ex-fed, I need the big guns, so I can't rely on a friend who isn't on good terms with the guy who's shooting.

Noxus Network has people in their pocket. People who could help me solve my teeny tiny problem. So I have to get Noxus Network to care about solving my problem, but all I list is camera crew and cable boys. Vladimir pretty much ran the show for us, and we were far away from the main office. The only time I ever went to one of the studios was when we recorded voice over for post-production. There was a woman… that chief editor, all sources went through her. I'd heard about her before, in the circuit, playing the game.

We never had an overlap. Me, I was in it for quick money. Theft and fraud mostly. Gambling. I know Malcolm pulled some stunts before we got together, and I can't say I haven't killed a man, but we traded in simple goods. Mostly violence. Intel, now that's a whole 'nother business. Sure, I knew people in that line of work. Every now and then we needed something off the market, but we rarely had something to offer on it.

But we were close enough to spot the big players. The Black Rose was a whole ring, running operations all along the west coast. Who knows how big they might be now, with Noxus Network writing them checks. LeBlanc, that was her name. She was gorgeous, though a bit short for my taste. The perfect femme fatale. Would have worked on camera, but she prefered the shadows. I guess not everyone at Noxus is crazy to have their face all over everything.

The Black Rose I've seen isn't shy. In fact, they're pretty ruthless. I guess you have to be if you want to make it in the media world. The good thing about cutthroat people is that they're predictable. You always know they might, no, they will stoop low if you don't give them what they want. Really, bad guys are the easy ones to deal with. They also get shit done.

I crumple up the paper sheet and stuff it in my bag. Once I'm back outside, I'll burn it, but there's smoke detectors in the room. I press myself onto the window sill to light a cigarette. Around Lulu, I try not to smoke so much, but alas, I'm not around her. It's getting pretty windy now, and I have a hard time getting the spark to jump over. My mind is racing.

LeBlanc is the one I need. She is the one digging up dirt on half this country in the name of entertainment. Chances are she has something I can use against Kalista - some scandal or inconvenience to slow her down enough that I can reach Lulu. That's all I really need, so it's okay if I cut a loss in the deal. I'll still need leverage, of course. Something of value, something LeBlanc can't get to without me.

This I'll figure out later. I'm a pretty good thief after all, if I may say so myself. Once I've scoped out the situation, I'll find a point of attack for my particular talents. Noxus Network doesn't give a damn about the legal status of their sources as long as they can mask their involvement, and that should work in my favour. I see myself as more of a freelancer anyways.

So, LeBlanc.

Too bad I don't know that one in person.

I fish my phone out of my coat. It's an old one with scratches all over it, but getting a cell that doesn't constantly tell the internet your GPS location has gotten pretty darn hard in the past few years. I usually have a bunch of burner phones for convenience and if I really need to drop off the radar, I just ditch all electronics. The reason I still have this one is because I've saved most of my contacts to the sim card and because it's the number Lulu has. I don't dare calling her and it drives me crazy that she doesn't try herself. Perhaps I taught her too well.

I get the mailbox. It's just past ten, so I guess she's still at work. After a moment of hesitation, I decide to leave a message.

"Hey Janna," I say, "this is T.F., not sure you remember me. I was the drunk guy with the cheesy hat, according to you. Heard you live in L.A. these days. Funny story, so do I. Let me know if you want to catch up sometime."

Only now do I notice that someone tried to call me. I check the time, must've been when I was at home, sleeping. I don't recognize the number and for a moment I get my hopes up, but the area code is from Nevada. Whoever this was tried to get me three times before giving up. Ain't no way in hell I'm calling back. For all I know, this is Kalista tracking me.

She shouldn't have this number - it's old and I gave it to few people - but you can never be too careful. I slide the phone into my pocket and decide not to mind it for a while. Honest to god, I don't even know why that woman is so obsessed with catching me. Sure, there is more than enough reasons why I should be behind bars, but why now? Why like this?

It's not just her endurance, it's the preparation. How she seems to almost be a step ahead of me; I don't appreciate that. The evening fades softly into night. Music from the clubs fills the streets. For a moment, I close my eyes and slip into the boots of my younger self, dancing until the morning light with strangers I called friends. Running into the likes of Vladimir again is a bit surreal because I never expected anything to last. I was a vagabond, hungry for wealth and the world, for the things I couldn't put into words.

I never committed to anything beyond the next heist. How I ever wound up married, I can't even tell. We don't have rings. We hardly even had a wedding. Perhaps for men like us, between all the lies and forgeries, having legitimate papers is more meaningful than an exchange of vows. I don't think I promised him anything. If I did, well, I guess I'm sorry.

Fuck me, Malcolm's barely out of prison on what feels like the other side of the world, but he's already haunting me. When did I become such a sob? They say fatherhood softens you, but I'm not sure I would have been up for it if I knew it would turn me into a wuss. Ah, who am I kidding?

With what's left of my cigarette wedged between my fingers, I watch the news from my vantage point by the window. Janna's a delight doing the weather, chipper as I know her. She's put on a few pounds in the right places. What a pretty thing. It'll get warmer still, she says. Not sure I like that, but I can deal with a bit of a heat wave as long as I'm not driving again.

Most of the news is pointless to me, but as expected, the vultures start gathering around the remnants of a few first campaign openings for the senate elections. Usually I don't care much for politics, but if I want to get cozy with Swain, I need to pay attention. Jarvan is running again this year. Good. Very good. That's the guy whose assistant got caught up in the whole sex tape thing with Katarina. At least she kept talking about a sex tape on the show - never in shots with him present, mind you - although I don't think the actual video, if it exists, ever made it onto the worldwide web. Noxus Network has had beef with him and his party ever since, and it's a lucrative war for them.

If I can find something, somehow, that LeBlanc hasn't stumbled over yet… But how do I beat her to the punch on her own turf? I'll have to be clever about it. Or, well, get lucky. That's usually my approach after all.

Just as the camera shifts to the sports reporter, my phone beeps with a message. Janna was on air just a minute ago, so I doubt it's her. Much to my disappointment, it isn't my daughter, either. It's the number from Nevada again. I hesitate for a moment, but then I open the text.

 _TF_ , it reads, _u westbound by any chance? Got sth to sell, help me haggle a price? xoxo Syndra_

And just like that, I'm dealt a trump card.

When I was a man I thought it ended

Well I knew love's perfect ache

But my peace has always depended

On all the ashes in my wake

 **Graves**

Of course I don't call Kayle. Instead, I pass out on the couch and miraculously wake up in bed. For the rest of the morning, I'm mostly concerned with breakfast and setting myself up for what I suppose is real life. I leave the TV running in the background, and from the corner of my eye, I could swear I've seen the weather girl naked. The remnants of the pizza are still on the table, so I stuff them in the fridge for later.

I've got a whole folder of papers to flip through. The closer I got to being released, the more I felt like prison was turning into an office. Now I've got a bank account and credit card, I've got my driver's license back and the rent is paid for the next three months. My ID is valid and I even got a passport, though I doubt they'll let me on international flights. Might be useful though, with how close Mexiko is.

When I was younger, I worked across the border a lot. Drugs, mostly. Easy to make money for the smugglers. Also easy to get firearms down south. I ran with the wrong pack from an early age but what can I say? There's people from my youth who stayed on the right path, and they're still in the same damn spot. I've seen my share of this country and it's ugly, but still worth seeing. Now I'm itching to get out there again, but I'm not sure where to start. There was this cute little social worker at the prison, far too eager for how shit her job was. Name was Lux, I think. Not from here. Looked rich, too.

Anyhow, that Lux girl went above and beyond to help me "get ready for rehabilitation". Firm believer in guys like me turning it around, that one. I almost hate to disappoint her. There's a lot you can do with ten years. Most who're in for as long as me, they pick up something. Get an education. I'm a highschool dropout who isn't much for learning. A couple of months in, a guy from the jobcentre came by to discuss my options. Wanted to know what I thought qualified me for work. "I don't ask questions." Didn't like that answer much.

That's how I've always been. I don't give a fuck why you're hiring me, as long as the pay is right. Not even a decade in the dullest place on earth can make me a scholar. Sure, I took a course here and there, but mostly for stuff I thought would bite my ass later if I didn't. They had a few on IT, for example. Damn how easy half of my job is with all the fancy tech today, and damn how hard the other half has become. You can find every goddamn son of a gun in a minute on the internet.

Except for T.F., of course. I tried. Seems like he stayed in Vegas for about a year at some point. Gave up the game and charmed gamblers with some card tricks. Why anyone would want to film that is beyond me, and it made me sick to even try and watch it. Friend of mine did and said there was nothing that would help me find him, except perhaps through people. Wrote down the credits for me. Good kid, that one. Won't be out for another three years. I promised I'd buy him a drink once he does.

Connections are everything in my business. I suppose in any business, really. Can't trust anyone, but you don't have to as long as you know their price. So that Lux kid, she got me a phone. Went on and on about the different contracts and what I thought I might need. All that really matters is that I can call people. Ten years means numbers change, but that's what the internet's for I guess. Of course they keep tabs on everything you do in prison, so I had to wait until now. Clever little Lux got me internet on the phone, too.

It's not like I can just google my old crew, but not all were as deep in the mud as me. Some parts of the business rely on being easy to approach. Buyers and sellers, scaremongers. They leave a trail of breadcrumbs. You know their keys, you find 'em. It takes me a bit less than an hour of searching people to unearth one of my old, way old contacts.

Sarah Fortune was little else than a kid running errands back then. I think she replaced me pretty much, when I was old enough to fire a gun and moved up to a footsoldier. From what I can gather, she went clean a couple of years after I did. The thing with the mafia is, you gotta be in it for the long haul. Stick around and you get so caught up in their feuds that they own you. I didn't want to be owned.

The good thing about Sarah is that we kept in touch, but we were always on opposite sites of the States doing entirely different jobs. Although we never had any issues, we just didn't end up working with each other. What that means is that up until I went to prison, she wasn't a contact for T.F., she was one of mine. I need those now.

T.F. and I met gambling, but we came from different places. He'd been born to some Roma horse farm that played it wrong with local law enforcement. Still in Texas, I'd been the minion to an east coast mafia clan. We had different networks, and for most of it, we shared them. Never had a reason to withhold anything. If we got caught, we got caught together. Or at least that's what he had me think. Sarah simply never came up.

Apparently she's gone freelance, and she's on the good side of the law, too. Might just be a cover. Some people can juggle playing it straight and still running the circuit. I sure as hell can't. One look and you'd know what I am. No point in hiding it. I dial the number I think is Sarah's and get the mailbox. Half an hour later, she calls back from a different line.

"Why, good Sunday Miss Fortune," I greet her with a chuckle.

"Didn't know they let you out of the pen Graves."

I can hear the grin in her voice. Sarah's a sly one. Charming, perhaps too much so for her own good, but she knows how to use it. Most women get run over in the game, but Sarah is one you shouldn't cross.

"Been free since yesterday," I tell her, "but I ain't one for wasting time."

"Surely not. And I assume you're not just calling for old time's sake. What can I do for you?"

Ah, brave little Sarah. Doesn't fuck around. Should've kept her closer, but that would've probably ended bad. Not that T.F. was any better. Thinking about it, they're awfully similar in some regards.

"Just some pointers. Got a head to blow off, but nowhere to start."

"Gotcha."

I hear the clicking of a computer mouse, typing.

"I assume this is about your old partner? Can't say I know where that one's hiding."

"Leave the bastard to me," I assure her. "Might have a lead."

"Damn Graves, you work fast," she laughs.

"More like getting lucky."

"Ah, we all do sometimes. Which state are you in, Texas?"

"Yup."

More typing, and soon Sarah is listing people who can get me back into the circuit. She's based in Florida herself and keeps saying I should swing by, but I'm no fool. Sarah wraps you around her finger and boom, you're working for her pretty little ass the next five years. Maybe once this thing is settled, but I don't think I can be bothered.

"I owe ya one," I promise when she's finished equipping me with email addresses and phone numbers.

"Don't worry about it," she chimes, but I know she'll get back at me. Damn, I hope she does. I don't like keeping open tabs within the circuit. This a big one, too. Sarah's given me a couple of people right in my area, and a few more all across Texas. From what she told me, she's out of organized crime and into some sort of bounty hunting these days, so I know whenever she wants this debt repaid, it'll be dirty work. Ah well, it is what it is. I don't exactly have leverage.

The first step is transportation. I can get around town on bus and subway, but there's no way in hell T.F. is hiding right in my grasp. The place where I'm staying is a trailer park on the outskirts of town, ragged and dirty, but it's a good start. Towards noon, the sun comes out, so I take a stroll around to get a feeling of my little base of operations. It's a pretty dead neighborhood. A couple of streets from me is the supermarket I went to yesterday, and it's a small one. Next to it is a tobacco store and a laundromat. That's about it for shopping. I spot a taco place that reeks of grease and beans gone bad even through the closed door and a butchery that smells just about as bad.

There's no schools, but a playground that I assume is mostly populated with teenage potheads. No pubs. A kiosk here and there, and they all look pathetic. Towards the city it gets less bleak, but all the dirtier. Oddly, this is my kind of place: The kind you really don't want to stay anyways.

Probably the most interesting thing I come by is a junkyard. Surprisingly, the owner lets me snoop around on a Sunday afternoon. Trundle has a face like a Neanderthal, but he seems to know his stuff. In another life, I might have worked with mechanics. God knows if our ride ever broke down, T.F. wasn't the one fixing it. For all his fancy finger work, the man didn't know shit about machines. Plus he wasn't one for getting down with oil and gasoline.

Sometimes I wonder what I kept him around for. Certainly wasn't the sex, we were partners long before we became... whatever you want to call it. Ah, who am I kidding? As useless as he was in some situations, he was the guy with the plan. Too bad that plan included selling me out.

Ten fucking years, and it wasn't a walk in the park either.

It's easier to think about that out here than on my couch. Easier to get angry when you can grab onto steel and pull or push or kick. Trundle looks over with his bushy ginger brow raised a few times, but soon I'm out of earshot. He's got some pretty decent stuff here. Nothing that won't need a ton of work before I can kill a guy with it, but hey. Can't have everything. Sarah gave me an address for a gun.

I loop back around to the front where a row of cars is parked. I need a ride more than anything.

"Any of 'em still drive?" I ask, and Trundle nods to a couple of rusty carcasses. There's an old van, similar to one I had ages ago, a surprisingly pretty Chevrolet, a cabrio. Of course the good ones are too suspicious. I'll need it painted because only scum like me drives shit cars, and I can't really work with an oldtimer. Not too shabby, not too flashy, nothing people will look at twice.

"How much for the pick-up?" I ask. Trundle eyes the car first, then me.

"Two thousand without papers," he suggests.

"Pah," I snort, "I'd be surprised if it's worth half that."

Feels good to try and strike a bargain. Too bad Trundle knows his stuff. Fixes the cars up himself, that guy. Apparently the tachometer doesn't quite work, but I ain't one for driving by the limit. Somehow Trundle's picked up that I'm the shady sort, so he's calculating how much he'll charge for the pain in the ass this might become. No clue how he figured me out, but who am I to fool the man?

We barter for a while, as is custom with these things. I've got a budget to get me started. Most of my bank accounts were frozen when they put in me in prison, but they didn't discover them all. I had two or three left, one of which I shared with T.F. for whatever dumb reason we had at the time. That one's empty. Bastard took all that was on it a couple years back. Still, I had some backed up. I ain't wealthy by anyone's standard, but it's enough for me not to worry that Trundle guy might pull me over the table.

And it's a good car for what I need it to do. I like having a high seat for long drives, and it's the kind of truck you have to climb into. Three seats, so there's room for me to crash. It looks like crap of course. Trundle asks if I have a big trip planned. I damn well do. Not sure where yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if I had to hike all the way up to Alaska to drag out that son of a bitch.

Good to get a truck, really. I faintly remember the winter we had to abandon a car we actually paid for because it just wouldn't get us through the snow. It was miserable, really. Got stuck on some dead track and had to walk seven miles for a service station. Never had a better coffee. The stuff was so thick you could stand up a spoon in it, and hot enough to burn my tongue. T.F. took it worse than me. Guy likes owning things.

Considering how far I'll beat the truck, Trundle's advice is to have it checked before I hit the road. If I had the equipment, I could probably do it myself, but alas, I don't. Shit, I'll have to buy a lot of stuff, don't I?

There's a giant workshop attached to the junkyard. Trundle owns it, but doesn't have much time to work there. He's got two boys running it, and they get the place on Sundays "for their lil' hobby projects", so they're actually in to look over the truck. I drive it the short way across the junkyard. Feels fine. Tiny bit jumpy to start perhaps, but I don't mind. As long as the brakes work, I'm good.

Turns out the boys are on Sarah's list, actually. Saves me one trip, then. Rumble is the scruff, lanky sort, with hair that was meant to be dyed some funky color, but has since faded to a muddy grey-brown. He's all over the car right away, tools hanging from a wide belt over dirty denim jeans. Can't be much older than twenty. Once I drop Sarah's name, he starts talking code. I don't need much except for paint, and apparently he won't go much further anyways. Apparently having Sarah Fortune know you doesn't mean you're fixing trunks to hold a hostage quite yet. Good that I don't need that.

It means that his buddy, Ziggs, isn't as much of a source as I was hoping, though. He's hunched over some electronics in the back of the workshop. Sarah said he sells guns, and sure enough he does, but he wants to see my license. Ain't got one. Not fresh out of prison.

He shows me his merchandise anyways. Damn me, he's got some crazy things. Not sure I like my guns tinkered with that heavily though, so I'll have to see. We have a good chat while Rumble's busy with the car. Firearms is one of those things you can't really educate yourself about in prison, at least not if you don't want the guards watching you twice as sharp for a month or two. Ziggs gets me up to speed on what's what these days. According to Rumble, I can pick up the car tomorrow. I still don't have a gun, but at least I've got an idea of what I should be looking for.

I pay Trundle and give the boys a good tip, then I roll off the junkyard. Trundle says I still need to register the car, but I think we both know I won't do that. There isn't much gas in the tank, so that's the first thing I do. Second is get out my phone. Sarah had a few names for guns, but if the first already didn't work out, I'm not screwing around. There's one girl on here who I know for a fact is shady, shady material.

Jinx was really damn young when I cut ties with the mafia. I'm not surprised that child got sucked into the family. She had a crazy look every time I passed her, pickpocketing in the streets. It frustrates me to even dial her number. The mafia is long, long behind me. Owing Sarah a favour is one thing, but them? Gotta make sure I get out clean, and fast. Then again, if I want to get back in the business, that's a surefire net of contacts right there.

I'm lucky - that Jinx chick is in town, not up in Chicago, where I don't really feel like going. I doubt T.F. is dumb enough to hang around a city that my old clan's at, anyways. I might not be shooting for them any longer, but family's family to those people. Jinx recognizes that, too. She seems to remember me from the old days. Asks to meet me in a couple of hours.

Good. So I've got a car and probably a gun. I've also got a favor owed to Sarah fucking Fortune and the mafia. Not so good then.

Now I need that lead I'm speculating on. I head home so I can call Kayle from the comfort of my own kitchen. The office is closed, but she gave me her private number, and she picks up pretty much right away. Doesn't sound happy to talk to me. Can't really blame her.

"Mr. Graves," she informs me, "we had a bit of an incident earlier with Lulu. After yesterday, we are watching her closely, but she tried to run away again."

"She's a fucking kid," I chuckle, "can't be that hard to ground 'er."

"Well this isn't prison Mr. Graves, I thought you of all people would know the difference."

I can't help but laugh at how dryly she delivers her line. This Kayle's a feisty one.

"Damn you woman, you got me there."

She doesn't seem to approve of my humor. Not surprised.

Kayle sighs.

"I may or may not have promised her you will come to visit. Are you free later this afternoon?"

"I ain't", I grunt. Got a tiny little thing with a mafia chick. Happy days.

"Pretty busy for a man in your… situation."

"You spend ten years behind bars and tell me you don't wanna live a little after."

"Touché."

There's a short pause while she flips through a calendar. I guess the kid has school. Or is it vacation time already? Can't really tell. Summer lasts for fucking ever down here.

"Just let me know if you find the time," Kayle admits her defeat. "As much as I disapprove of this, Lulu seems quite attached to you. She's been upheaved a lot lately. I'd do almost anything to see her happy, if only for a bit."

"So you're down to call up the criminal who doesn't know 'er?"

Another pause.

"I realize you've never met, but Lulu thinks of you as a father."

"I ain't nobody's father."

She doesn't try to call after I hang up.

Jinx is summoning me to the other end of the city. It takes ages to get there by train and bus. Nobody minds me, nobody knows, or guesses. I still feel like an inmate, hunched on my seat, eyes drawn to every little piece of cityscape that passes by. In the beginning, I had a couple of transfers, but then I served the rest of my sentence in the same facility. You get so used to what's around you that you start forgetting, forget about all the rest of the world. Part of me hopes it'll take a while to find T.F., just so I have an excuse to take a peak again.

As if to answer some cliché, Jinx is meeting me in the harbour. I arrive a good bit ahead of time. The smell is almost too much for me. I haven't been around open water so long that I'm kinda shocked by how vast it is. Suddenly I want to go to a beach. Never been a beach type of person. Or a mountain, or a forest. Anything big and landscape-y. Anything not man-made, not steel and concrete and the stench of piss.

I light a cigarette and the wind almost blows it out. Love it. The prison was so far inland you hardly noticed how bullshit coastal weather is. For a while, I feel like the man I was ages ago again. A man with too much time on his hands and too little ambition to do something useful. Could've made it far as a henchman, but no, I had to drop out. Mine ain't a stable career, but the mafia is as close as you can get.

Nah.

That would have been the easy way.

And look where not taking it got me, in prison for a decade and then right back to 'em. Fucking T.F. has a lot to answer for.

Jinx finds me before I can look for her. Can't say I would've recognized her - she was ginger at some point, but now her hair's bright neon blue and she's, well, not seven. I guess she grew up pretty, though not my type. She's short, with a flat chest and skin so white I wonder what weird jobs she does for whatever boss holds the reigns right now.

"Same old pooper, huh?" she grins, revealing bleached teeth. Should've worn braces as a kid, one of her canine's sticking out like a vampire tooth.

"What can I say," I grunt, "I try my best."

She cocks her head, as if considering a thought. Her outfit is bland enough, plain jeans and a leather jacket, but I can't imagine the hair works well for our business. One day she'll learn that the hard way. You wanna make it, you gotta find the right balance between blending in and sticking out.

"Fine," she finally says. "Got a bit of an issue, thought you could help."

Oh dear, here we go.

I need another cigarette.

"What sort?"

"Hm, the not so chatty sort."

She makes a fist from long, slender fingers.

"Turns out I'm not so convincing."

I flick my lighter against her fist. She catches it easily.

"Who knows kiddo, ya might just yet grow a bit more," I joke and she makes a pouting face. How old is she again? She looks sixteen at best, but I know she's over twenty. That much math I can do.

"I hear you're a punchy type," Jinx informs me. "So, up for some punching?"

The warehouse she leads me to isn't exactly deserted. There's evidence of dockworkers everywhere, but I guess Sunday evening isn't a heavy shift. Jinx walks in as if she owns the place. She doesn't, I'm pretty sure, but people decide to look the other way as we pass by. I'm doing my best to make Jinx look even tinier than she is. I'm not all that tall, but I'm big. Broad shoulders like a farmer or something. In prison, you get so bored even the laziest nerds starts working out.

Turns out Jinx has a guy tied up in a back office of the warehouse. I want to laugh at how stereotypical the whole get-up is, but then again, she's only just starting out. Plus she seems to like the dramatics - as soon as we close the door, she picks up an assault rifle from the desk. The guy's twice her size, but he reeks of sweet, sweet chloroform. It's a subtle smell, but one you learn to notice.

His head lulls from one side to the other. He's pretending to be more drugged than he is.

"Told you I'd find us a friend," Jinx announces. "See, the boss is big on having you unharmed, bla bla bla, but don't you worry, I'm up for putting a hole in you, if it helps."

"This is my good shirt," I warn her. "You ain't gettin' me bloody today."

"Oh, I'll give a warning."

Her grin is disturbing, because it pinches her big round eyes into an odd, almost feline shape.

"I always give a warning. Or not."

With slow steps, I circle around the guy. He's bound to a simple office chair, but it looks like the ropes are tight enough. Jinx twisted his feet at an angle to make it harder for him to sit, and I can see his fingertips going blue from a lack of blood supply. She must've kept him here for a while.

Ah, I always liked pulling the tape off someone's mouth. All the sweeter when they have a beard. He gasps, choking down what might have been a scream.

"Alright buddy," I grunt, "what's she want from you?"

He spits at me - poor aim, he hits my chest, not my face - so I grab his hair and yank back.

"I ain't the patient kind," I hiss, "you try that shit again, you'll be spittin' sideways."

Behind me, Jinx giggles. I can hear her tap her boots together. The rifle clicks in her arms. Hope that isn't mine - way too big, too hard to stash somewhere. Too obvious to carry around. Maybe that's what she's going for: Looking so out of place you don't even want to know.

"He's got a bomb. Boom! I want it."

"A bomb, huh. And he ain't telling you where?"

I know she's shaking her head from the rustle of her clothes, the soft crack of leather that's too stiff to move properly.

"How rude of him," I mutter, twisting my fist in his hair. It's sweaty and disgusting, but hey, who am I to judge.

"She'd blow up a city if I let her have the explosives," the guy grunts. Cute, tryin' to get me on his site.

"But not _your_ city, silly!" Jinx complains. "So what do you care?"

I think I get the jist of it. Back when, I got with the mafia from smuggling drugs. Made my way over to firearms, which was a hot market at the time. Kept on changing the supply routes. Sometimes, a package or two gets lost. Bosses tend to want that back.

"I ain't got all night," I tell the guy, and before he can say anything, I smack him right across the face. Jinx applauds me. It takes a bit more than that, of course. I like what Jinx did with the ropes because it means I can pretty much throw the entire chair with the guy still on it. We kick him through the room a couple of times.

He's panting in the corner, blood streaming from his nose. So much for my shirt, then. Jinx is watching him like she's at the zoo, the kind of curious fascination a child has for a chimpanzee. Like she sees the similarities, but the glass is telling her who won in the rat race called evolution. Our monkey is holding up pretty well. I light another cigarette. Pack's almost empty, shit.

Pushing Jinx back to her desk and rifle, I kneel in front of the guy and blow the smoke in his face.

"We can keep doin' this, y'know."

I'm not one for putting out my cigarette on someone else's skin. Always thought it was kinda pointless. Other ways to hurt someone that won't give 'em a scar to hate you by. Let 'em forget yer face, I always say. Leave a few things for the next guy to do.

Break a rib, not a bone. Subtle things, right?

"Or you just open that ugly mouth of yours before I punch too many teeth out to understand what the fuck you're tryin' not to tell us."

As if to prove my point, he spits out one. I pick it up and stuff it back in his mouth, pressing two fingers just far enough down his throat that he gags, but won't puke yet.

"Y'know, I got better things to do," I hiss, "I just got out of prison. Ten years, ya know what that's like? And yer the lucky bastard, really. First asshole I get to fuck up."

I could bet Jinx is swooning at this point.

A good ten minutes later I got the guy talking. None of the names he mentions ring a bell. Who's betraying who at this point, I couldn't care less. Not my world. But Jinx is satisfied.

"Such a good boy", she coos before hitting the guy's temple to knock him out cold. She wipes her hands as if there's dust on them, visibly pleased with her - and by extension my - work.

"Thanks, Mister Graveyard! Love how quick this went."

Quick still means well over an hour. It's midnight by now, and I'll have trouble getting a train back to my trailer park. Fuck me I guess.

"Pleasure's mine, really."

I want to say this didn't feel good, but I suck at lying. The thing about prison is, everyone kinda hates each other. Some of the people I was in with, they put each other there. So in a facility like mine, we're all a time bomb. Ticking down to the next fight in the yard. But there's always some guard at hand. You get a minute or two when really, you just need to let it all out and beat the living shit out of… something. Anything.

I've always had a temper. I've built a career on having a temper. Other boys, they learn to control themselves, but I found people who'd pay for me to get angry. I'm the Hulk of corporate America's crime scene.

"Okay then," Jinx chimes. "You needed a gun, right?"

She pulls out a suitcase from underneath the table. It's a big one, the kind you get for moving overseas. Or for T.F.'s boot collection. My knees go weak as she opens it.

One of the foam cutouts is empty - that one's for the rifle. Next to it, cushioned and polished, is a handgun, underneath it the long barrel of a shotgun. In the corners there is room for two, three hand grenades, though she seems to have used them up for something I don't want to know the details of. The other half of the suitcase is laid out in foam as well. It holds ammo cases for each of the weapons and the parts of what must be… a rocket launcher?

Damn, this girl is batshit crazy. I spot a box of tampons cramped into one of the empty grenade pockets, and a can of soda in another. Living out of a suitcase, then. Sounds like me.

I could do with the handgun, but Jinx grins at me as she reaches into the suitcase.

"You had one of those, right?" she recalls as she lifts the shotgun from its pocket. It's a damn beauty. Heavy in my hands, and even asleep as it is, I can almost feel the recoil. From the barrel, I guess it's a 12 gauge.

"She doesn't like me," Jinx pouts.

"I betcha," I chuckle. With her small frame, this is an awkward weapon to carry, made for hunting. Good thing I'm planning a hunt, then.

"No, she really doesn't like me," Jinx repeats. I turn the shotgun around in my hands and she sticks her tongue out at it. "And guess what, I don't like her either!"

"What shells do I need?"

Jinx bends back over the suitcase and passes me a small box.

"Twelvers. Boring. I got a couple of buckshots left."

"Perfect," I mumble. This ain't the gun to give a warning shot. It's the gun to rip a man apart. Can't wait to pull the trigger. I start rolling numbers around in my head. "How much do I owe ya?"

Jinx shrugs.

"A favor. Itsy-bitsy one, after tonight."

"Sure," I grunt. If I want the gun, I'm back in the pocket of the mafia. Guess I made that choice about an hour ago, so I might as well roll with it. This is my way of doing things. Got in through the mafia way back when, might as well try that a second time. There's worse places to start.

Jinx gives me a bag to disguise the shotgun in and drives me to the station on a run-down motorbike. She has about as much respect for traffic lights as I do for her. It helps, though, because I just about catch my last train. The cart smells like cheap beer and cheaper teenagers. I slump down somewhere in the back, which still isn't far enough not to be annoyed by the raging hormones throwing a private party by the door. I'm too old to get mad at them, but the music they blast far too loud from their shitty phone speakers serves as a good reminder of why I travel by car. In a way, trains are convenient, because all you need to do is get on before whoever's after you does. But fuck, I hate people sometimes.

I almost nod off despite the noise. No idea how I got this tired. For some reason, I feel bitter. Sure, I got what I needed, but I've also got two crazy women that'll get back at me some day. Two days out and I'm right back in the mud. Guess that was to be expected. I think of the little social worker and her fancy phone. If she could see me right now, knuckles bruised and a gun hidden on my lap, she'd probably regret all the hours she poured into my case.

Shoulda known, little lady.

Men like me don't change.

We only get worse.

All you have is your fire,

And the place you need to reach

Don't you ever tame your demons,

Always keep them on a leash…

Arsonist's Lullabye, Hozier


End file.
